Whirlpool
by Laurie M
Summary: Babylon 'noir' fic. A random piece of fluff in which it is proved that it's possible to be clean and dirty at the same time.


Disclaimer: All of the usual stuff - _Babylon 5_ is owned by J Michael Straczynski, Babylonian Productions™ and Warners™. This is just my own _noir_-verse fantasy...

Author's Note: This genre is still going strong... As before, these are characters who debuted in _The Deep Sleep_ and continued into _Body and Soul._ It's a short, fluffy ficlet and should be avoided if you object to adult situations.

Dedication: To DDAgent, who requested the story in the first place.

* * *

**Whirlpool**

**By**

**Laurie M**

**_To:_**_ The General Editor_

_**From:**__ Head of Research_

_Found this extract in with the Sheridan/Ramir papers - we're still searching for the rest of the entries. I doubt it will be published in the next volume, but it is a charming insight - it's caused quite a stir down in the archives._

* * *

_New York, 1949_

It was cold outside that night: the windows held a patina of frost that diffused the glow from the streetlights. I shut the drapes against the gloom – inside, at any rate, it was warm. There was music drifting through the bedroom; I had the wireless playing softly and I would join in with a favoured song every now and then. I am not what would be described as a great singer – or even a good singer: my voice always breaks over the higher notes that I can't quite reach. Occasionally over the music and my own inept contributions I could hear a discreet splash coming through the open door from the bathroom.

That would be John, the injured victor, finally admitting to being human and taking more than two seconds in which to actually relax. It was not anything serious – if it had been I would have taken him to the hospital myself, even if I had to drug him and get Drahl to help me load him into the car to do it. As it was, he had strained his back slightly, which is what comes of chasing twenty-year-old suspects down fire escapes, and I had told him so. I had felt like adding, 'And at your age, too,' but had managed to restrain myself. He is, after all, in much better physical condition than most twenty-year-olds and they are half his age. John had refused any and all medical consultation as he has his own prescription for dealing with that sort of thing: a couple of aspirin, a hot bath and a good single malt.

I moved across to the doorway and took a surreptitious look inside, peering through the haze at the recumbent figure in the tub.

'Oh, the sights you see when you don't have a camera to hand,' I said.

My husband had augmented his supplies with the latest copy of _Astounding Science Fiction_ magazine and a cigar that left a pleasantly aromatic cloud of smoke to mingle with the steam. John glanced at me sideways, his eyes moving as lazily as the smile that caught one corner of his mouth.

'You could use that shot in a full-page advertisement,' I said, 'you'd have impressionable lady clients beating a path to your door.'

'Mike can have 'em,' he said around the cigar, 'no good has ever come from a lady client.'

I raised one eyebrow. 'Really. Thank-you – I shall remember that.'

He blew out smoke and grinned at me challengingly. 'Oh, but plaything, you were far more than just a client – lady or no lady.'

He can be the most insufferable man. 'Oh, read your comic.'

'Magazine,' he said, aggrieved, 'it's a magazine. Just like the ones you read, only without the Regency romances.'

'I have never read a Regency romance in my life.'

He laughed softly and took a sip of his Scotch, the ice chiming against the side of the glass. I pushed myself away from the doorway, moved across to the vanity units, pulled open a drawer, retrieved a nail file, and leant against the counter while I drew it across the tips of my nails. John was apparently engrossed in his magazine and I watched him for a moment. His skin gleamed damply under the lights; I watched the progress of one drop of water as it rolled down his chest, following the lines of hard muscle. His hair was wet, heavy and darker in colour, clinging to the back of his neck; he shifted position slightly, bone and muscle sliding smoothly under the skin.

'How's your back feeling?'

He tilted his head to look at me and smiled again. 'It's not so bad. Mild discomfort more than actual pain; I'll live.'

His eyes are hazel but at any given moment they never look the same colour as the last time I saw them. At that moment through the smoky haze they looked dull, dark gold.

'You could do with a nurse.'

He grunted, a husky sound deep in the back of his throat. 'It's fine. I'm fine. The last thing I need is to be prodded and poked by some strange woman.'

'Whoever said anything about a strange woman?' I untied the belt of my robe; I had knotted it only loosely and it came undone easily enough. 'You seem to be forgetting that I used to work for the Red Cross – and I haven't forgotten everything I learnt.'

I had his attention then: if not through my words then certainly through the fact that it was now obvious that I was wearing nothing under the robe. I was no longer wearing even that – it was just a pool of dark red silk at my feet.

His eyes moved slowly, a long look that left no part of me unstudied. 'It's good that you remind me about these things.'

'Mmm. Now, let me see what I can do here...'

The water was blissfully hot. I slid down behind him, putting my arms around his neck and resting my chin on his shoulder. His skin felt warm and damp against mine; he turned his head enough to catch my lips with his – a soft kiss that wasn't entirely innocent.

'So, uh, what exactly is the technical term for this procedure?'

'Hydrotherapy.' I murmured it against the hollow behind his ear.

'You must have been the most popular girl in the Red Cross,' he said, running one hand along the length of my calf, which was about the only part of me he could reach.

'Up until now this particular method has been only theoretical; I've never put it into practice before.'

'I'm glad to hear it.'

He still had the cigar between his fingers and raised it; I caught hold of his hand and pulled it to my lips. The smoke filled my mouth, deep and sweet and woody; I tilted my head back and blew out the smoke, watching it curl languorously in the air.

'Drink?'

'Thank-you.'

He held the glass to my lips – it really was a very good malt. I held it in my mouth for a moment, letting it roll around, savouring the flavour before swallowing. John watched me over his shoulder, amusement and something far stronger in the depths of his eyes.

'Did they also train you in the art of frustration?'

'Darling, aren't you feeling relaxed?'

'Not so much, no.'

'Oh...' I ran my hands along his shoulders. 'Mm, you're right: you are a bit tense.'

'That would be your fault,' he told me, 'I was doing perfectly all right on my own until you showed up.'

I was contrite. 'I'm sorry.' The sinews across his neck and shoulders were unyielding under my fingers; I worked them diligently. 'I'll have to find a way to undo the damage.'

One of his hands twisted around to the back of my head, pulling me towards him; his fingers slid into the mass of my hair I'd pinned up and he kissed me, hard. I kissed him back, wrapping myself around him to hold him in place when he tried to turn to face me. It was a confined space and I had him trapped. He is far stronger than I and can easily overpower me when I want him to – and very often I want him to. But not this time.

'Not so fast,' I said, when I could speak again, 'I have to make a thorough examination first – I wouldn't want to overlook anything important.'

John looked at me, slightly astonished, and then his eyes crinkled as he smiled; he coiled a lock of my hair around his finger. 'I wouldn't want to spoil your fun, plaything.'

'That's an admirable quality in a husband,' I said, following the line of his neck with my lips.

'Well, I do try...'

The music still trickled through from the bedroom, a slow, bluesy tune of the type that Steve and his band play after-hours at the White Star. The notes blended with the smoke and the steam and the soft sounds of mingled breathing until everything I could hear and touch and taste all seemed to be part of the same thing. I already knew my husband's body better than I knew my own but that did not stop my enjoyment of exploring again this beautiful man who belonged to me. I knew the solid contours of his arms; the flat plane down from his breastbone and the ridges of his ribs; I knew the fine criss-crossed pattern of scars on his side from an old injury when a Jeep had overturned; and the shiny, puckered patch of skin that marked a bullet-wound. I knew all of him. Under the warm water his skin was slippery; I felt the bunching of muscle under my hands and heard him say my name softly.

As I may have mentioned, he is far stronger than I - and he can move quickly when he wants to. Water slopped over the sides of the tub and then his face was close to mine, looking down at me. His eyes glinted. He braced himself with one hand; the other caressed me with the casual precision that comes from intimacy. I caught my breath and he smiled.

'John...'

His mouth on my skin was warmer than the water. I slithered down, laughed breathlessly, helplessly, and put my arms around his neck for support. He ran his hand down my leg, easing it around his waist and I held onto him. 'John-' I tried to laugh and breathe and kiss him all at once. 'John, I don't think that there's enough room for...'

I had thought wrong.

There was more water on the floor than there was in the tub by the time we extricated ourselves; John held out a hand to me to help me out.

'Venus of the bathtub,' he said, his eyes following the rivulets of water that trickled down me. He ran his hands through his hair, smoothing it away from his face.

I scraped the escaped locks of damp hair from my neck and twisted them back into place messily with a pin. 'How's your back feeling now?'

It was one of his slow, lazy smiles, which always make everything inside me feel blurred. 'It's fine. In fact, I can't feel a thing – it's great. You're an excellent nurse.'

'Oh, it was nothing,' I said modestly, 'anytime.'

John wrapped a towel around me and then pulled me towards him; his skin was still slick with water and warm. He manouevred me backwards, the cool tile of the floor gave way to the thick carpet of our bedroom. 'While you're busy giving out medical advice, any other suggestions?'

'Uh-huh. Bed-rest, and plenty of it...' One moment I was upright, the next I had landed on the pillows. I looked up at him. 'I said "rest".'

He laughed softly, his words indistinct against the curve of my neck. 'You know I can't think of more than one thing at a time. I didn't hear a word after you said "bed".'

He can also be incorrigible. But we did find a unique definition for the word 'rest'.

_Fin_


End file.
